It reminds me of this one time when I was thirteen. It was after a really hard night missing my family. I’d been crying, and then I saw a bloom just like it outside my window, soft and beautiful, similar to this one. I started drawing, and somehow, that feeling of hope took over because Amber and Wren adopted me soon after. The piece brings me back to that moment. “I don’t know… It’s just so pretty. I’m not sure I can sell it.”
“Then don’t. If you’re not ready, there’s no rush.”
“We’ll see…” I trail off, resuming my walk. The streets are a little less crowded now as I near the quieter neighborhood where my job is. “How’s Wren doing?”
“Take a wild guess.”
I giggle. I can easily picture him, my adopted father. “Let me guess. He’s in his chair, snoring, with the sports channel blaring.”
“And don’t forget Rufus on his lap,” Amber adds with a laugh.
I snigger. Rufus, their white Scottish terrier, is Wren's constant companion. They’re inseparable.
“Call me after work, okay? I want to hear how it went,” she adds.
“I will,” I promise, even though she asks me the same thing every time I have a shift. I know she worries about me walking home and catching the subway, but it’s never felt unsafe to me. Not really. It’s loud, crowded, and chaotic, but it’s nothing compared to what I grew up with. The shouting, the uncertainty, the constant feeling of being on edge with my parents and otherfoster homes. They treated me worse than any subway ride ever could. So, the bumping of bodies, the strange looks from strangers, it doesn’t faze me.
As I near the end of the block, the familiar sight of the small brick building comes into view. I hang up the call just as I reach the front door, ready to start my shift, eager to see who’ll be in my class tonight.
Chapter 2
Karley
Inside,thescentofpaint instantly hits me as I unlock the door. I head to the small desk in the corner where the art supplies are neatly organized. Turning on the radio, music fills the room as I begin setting up for the party of six. Something catches my eye in the light: a white note folded by the paint jars.
Karley
I brought new paints. They’re in the cupboard. There’s only one party tonight, so feel free to stay back and paint if you want.
Tills
I smile at her generosity. I’ve been working at Tills’ for a few years now. Tills is my brother’s girlfriend’s mom, and this place has become a second home to me. My brother mentioned my love of art, and he was the one who encouraged me to ditch my part-time office assistant job to work here. I couldn’t say no; it’s a dream come true. It hardly feels like work. Till trusts me completely and lets me use supplies whenever I have spare time, no questions asked.
Hosting the parties is fun too. Occasionally, I get a few stuck-up guests; the kind who roll their eyes when they can’t figure out the brushstrokes or sigh dramatically when the paint doesn’t do what they want. They’re the ones who treat this like a joke, dismissing the process with every complaint. But I’ve learned to let it roll off me because it’s just a part of the job. Most of the time, though, it’s pure joy watching them create. Those moments make the annoying ones worth it.
I start setting up wine glasses beside each easel and arrange platters of fruit, sandwiches, and pastries that Tills has ordered from a nearby deli. Grabbing canvases, I prop them up on the easels and get the idea book ready for the birthday girl to choose from.
With a few minutes to spare, I switch the radio to the work playlist. Chatter outside the door draws my attention. I glance at the clock, seeing it’s five. Right on time. Moving closer, I open it and greet them with a smile. Most of the women look to be in their late twenties, wearing flowy dresses and laughing a bit too loudly already. But I can tell the vibe’s going to be fun.
“Hello, welcome to Tills’ Sip N’ Paint! I’m your host, Karley. Who’s Natasha?” I ask, scanning the group.
A woman with long blonde hair and a black pant suit steps forward, her hand raised, wearing a badge that says thirty-two. “That's me.”
“Happy birthday!” I greet her warmly.
“Thank you!” she says, her smile wide and bright.
“Come on in. Introduce yourself as you pass by so I can catch everyone’s name,” I say, stepping aside.
Natasha steps in first, followed by Jennifer, Gracie, Ava, Abigail, and Sara. I close the door behind them, watching as they squeal over the setup.
“This is adorable,” one of them gushes, eyeing the easels and food spread.
While they settle in, nibbling on the food, I head to the fridge, grab the wine, and pour each a glass. “Alright, sorry to interrupt, but Natasha, I need you to pick which painting everyone will work on tonight.” Part of me hopes she chooses a challenging piece to make the class more interesting.
She jumps out of her chair and walks over to me. Flipping through the idea book, she points to a giraffe with flowers on its head. “This one.”
“Good choice.” I smile. The design is cute and girly, perfect for the group. I pin it up on the wall so everyone can see. “Feel free to put your own twist on it. Change the flowers, the background, the colors. Make it your own. But first, let’s get a group photo.”
